One Year Ago Today…
Today, December 4th, is the first anniversary of my release from prison. I don’t know quite how to articulate this, but getting out of prison is a complicated experience. One moment you are in near total captivity, the next you are “free.” It’s a cause for celebration, gratitude for the many small blessings in life, like being able to close a door before using the bathroom, but also…imagine it’s your first day working at a bank. Near closing, people with guns come in and take you and your coworkers hostage. The hours drag by and gradually, without notice really, a commonality is forced upon you and your peers. When one of your coworkers slightly hunches their shoulders, you recognize it as an attempt to relieve the stiffness that comes from sitting uncomfortably in one position too long. You all recognize the anxiety that comes with wondering when your captors will feed you, when you will get a drink of water, when you can stand without drawing the suspicion of the armed person feet away from you, when you’ll be able to use the bathroom, when you’ll be able to leave. After hours, perhaps days, one captor points at you, tells you that you alone are free to leave. Your first impulse is joy, followed swiftly with, but what about the others?
My overriding emotion remains gratitude. I feel incredibly fortunate to sit here, Spotify playing in the background, typing about my release and reflecting on this year in my life. I made it out three months before the greatest public health crisis we’ve seen since HIV. In spite of the shelter in place, I’ve been fortunate to enjoy (largely) virtual hang outs with family and friends in ways I could have never imagined after years of having my ability to connect with people policed. I’ve also watched with (mostly) amusement as people who are not incarcerated have referred to this as a “lock down.” Sure, and people who play the game of football use war rhetoric. This year, which has felt so restrictive for most of society, has been a year in which I’ve experienced greater options than any of the 250,000 people in captivity in California. That doesn’t mean COVID fatigue isn’t real, but I can’t compare my first year of release with my incarcerated loved ones who are scared for their lives in the same way any of us would be if we’d been trapped in an overcrowded, unventilated space with no ability to physically distance. Wear a mask they say. What, even when we sleep?
While I’m grateful for the relationships I’m building post release, the incarcerated community is still a large part of my community. When society judged me, this is who accepted me. This is who didn’t confine me to my past, but instead gave me the space to heal from past hurts, recognize the harm I’d caused others, and learn to break the cycles of trauma in my life.
So I’m glad to be free from prison but sorry to be severed from my community. Complicated, right? In addition, in order to see my captivity end, I had to be complicit with, and actively participate in, my own “redemption narrative.” If you’re not familiar, it goes like this. I was a bad person so I did bad things. While in prison I recognized that there was no future in being a bad person, so I started doing good things. This doesn’t quite make me a good person however, (sorry, I know the logic doesn’t track, but I didn’t come up with this stuff) instead I became a redeemed, forgiven person. Of course, not totally forgiven, my past is still used against me, legally, in a myriad of ways, but still, way better than before…because I’m free, right?
Anyone who has interacted with the prison system this year, has seen that the redemption narrative, like any narrative the powers that be put out, is merely a means of justifying the racism our society has formalized within its penal codes. If redemption is the path, then what of Anthony, who lived on maximum security prison yards for over two decades and mentored hundreds of young people, just as they came into the prison system about how to leave gang culture and leave toxic masculinity behind? He told me often that he felt fortunate to be on a max yard, because it’s where so many young people start their sentences. Or what of Fred and Amir, who took turns cooking for me after my father died in 2010? Both worked in jobs that paid about $.11 an hour. Both decided to pour the love into me they weren’t able to give their biological sons due to their captivity. Each of them would push back at the notion they were somehow exceptional. They’ve simply matured, grown, and now walk the prison yards they are on with thousands of others who are quietly, desperately trying to earn back the freedom they never really had.
And each of them has seen the state actively oppose taking responsibility for their health and safety in the midst of this pandemic. Amir, 70 years old, with a compromised immune system, was locked in a 4’x9’ cell with a person who’d contracted COVID-19, because so many people at the prison he’s at had it there was nowhere to move anyone. Ant lives in a dorm with close to 100 other people, even though his immune system is compromised as well. And not one of these individuals were considered “exceptional” or “redeemed” enough to be considered for release this year. In fact, out of the 6,200 people the state did consider for high risk medical release, only 41 were deemed deserving.
So my release feels complicated. I want to feel free, celebrate my liberty, and enjoy the remainder of my life. I’ve had experiences I never imagined; a Tedx talk, Uncommon Hero award, interviews in local and national media. Incredible moments in a tapestry of the wonderful relationships I am fortunate to be building on this side of the wall. I’m beyond grateful, yet I also remain hyper aware that I live in a society that criminalizes people who look like me, and that the vast majority of them will never be worthy of release in the eyes of the state. I am part of a community, and a product of the love they have nurtured me with that allowed me to heal. But I won’t fully heal until we come to terms with the hundreds of thousands of black and brown people in our prisons, striving to stay healthy in the face of a pandemic that’s decimating people in captivity. Thank you for taking a moment to share my reflections on my first year of release.